Recuperation
by blacktop
Summary: As Joss Carter lies gravely wounded in a hospital bed, mob boss Carl Elias vows to protect her. When he encounters John Reese at her bedside, a strange alliance between the gangster and the vigilante is sealed. This is a companion story to "Convalescence."


Slipping past Nurse Lewis again was even easier than last time.

Carl Elias waited behind a pillar just south of the fifth floor nurses' station, peering around it twice until he was sure the way was clear. He held his breath as one by one the night nurses drifted off to get snacks, or use the bathroom, or phone their boyfriends.

The coast was almost clear.

Of the nurses at St. Saraphia Martyr Hospital, Evangeline Lewis, with her alluring Jamaican accent and shiny cap of hair was usually the most devoted to her duty and therefore the hardest to dodge. On several occasions Elias had been obliged to wait until the shift changed to avoid being spotted by the hyper-vigilant Nurse Lewis on his nightly visits to the ward.

He marveled again at how many people watched over Jocelyn Carter: nurses drafted to the cause by her mother, a phalanx of NYPD patrolmen, even random sets of FBI agents. The guard stationed near the wounded detective's hospital room was superficially quite impressive.

But not impregnable.

After only ninety minutes of close observation on that first night, Elias had figured out how to slip by the police cordon.

To a man, these sentinels were lazy, bored, and humiliated at being trapped on this low-reward assignment.

Though Carter was a fellow officer assaulted on the job, she was a decidedly unpopular one.

Elias had eyes and ears everywhere inside the force. In every precinct and district, at every water cooler and vending machine, he had his people assessing information, sifting through the dross of gossip for a nugget he could use to enrich his criminal enterprise.

So he knew that Carter's prickly temperament and priggish sense of honor set her apart from her brother officers. They didn't like being shown up, not by a woman, especially not by a black woman whose unbending rectitude was on display twenty-four/seven.

In particular, he disapproved of the jealousy that led some officers to actually applaud when she was busted down to beat cop last summer.

For Elias, such disloyalty was a cardinal sin no matter which side of the law you walked.

And he was certain that if _he_ could manage to creep past the flimsy blue line and into Carter's room then surely a determined assassin bent on completing unfinished business could do it too.

Someone more trustworthy than a disgruntled policeman had to keep the watch.

So Elias vowed to keep that vigil during their reprehensible lapses. He felt he owed this fierce proud woman at least that much; he would offer this secret protection in partial repayment of a debt he could never completely retire.

On this frigid December evening Nurse Lewis' usual alertness had been punctured by intensified pleadings from her new beau, Officer Krupke.

Elias was sure the squat, freckled-faced policeman with the falsetto voice had a real name, but dubbing him Officer Krupke seemed to fit the scenario perfectly.

From his perch next to the water fountain, Elias watched the comedy unfold as the _West Side Story_ soundtrack rolled through his mind: Officer Krupke was persistent, Nurse Lewis was smitten, and nature insisted on its inevitable course.

So when the pair sidled down the corridor for an amorous interlude in the supply closet, Elias pushed quickly into Carter's darkened room and claimed his accustomed seat next to the window.

xxxxxxxxx

Black metal bars suited for a medieval castle divided the panes, whose speckled glass was rippled with age.

The distorted moonlight wafting through the window cast a melancholy spell over the chair he occupied and the matching one beside him. Cold, angular and unpadded, the metal chairs were designed to discourage lounging or lengthy visits. But with his mission to warm him, Elias was oblivious to such minor discomforts.

Joss was asleep.

Even though the bed was narrow, she seemed so small wrapped under two layers of sheets. The murmurs of the monitors linked to her vital signs were reassuring, their steady thump almost masking the slight gurgle that escaped from her open lips.

When he first began his vigil six nights before, the sounds of her labored breathing upset him. She seemed to struggle to catch every breath, hiccupping and gasping in awful alternation.

Even as she slept, coughs shuddered through her chest. This troubled him. Why didn't these doctors give her stronger medication to ease her rest? Elias knew she had been shot in the neck, a severe wound that threatened her life and might end her career even if she survived.

Logically, he knew she would require a long convalescence, but still it disturbed him to witness her vulnerability and her anguish. But because it upset him, he counted it that much more important to continue these nightly visits. If watching over Joss had been an easy thing, it would not be half as meaningful to him.

Penance was precisely the point, wasn't it?

So he sighed with her gasps, held his breath with every hesitation in her own, fidgeted in his hard chair every time she tossed aside the covers. Sharing these gestures gave him a weird kind of comfort.

He couldn't quite name the emotion and he would deny feeling anything if ever questioned. But the warm sensations were there all the same.

He knew he couldn't dissolve away her pain simply by being there. But if he could serve as an empathetic witness to her struggle then maybe, just maybe, he could shorten her recovery time. Even if only by a day or two.

This was just primitive superstition, of course, ill-fitting a modern businessman like himself.

Such cob-webbed thinking was for the feeble minded, he knew. These were beliefs gripped to the chests of crones in black shirt-waist dresses and torn black stockings, their hopes for a mystical transference wrapped around their heads like tattered scarves. This faith in magic was utterly alien to the modern logic systems he prided himself on.

But Joss deserved his attention and his help even if it came cloaked in this metaphysical form.

And magic or not, she _was_ getting better.

Elias was happy that this evening her breathing was smooth and quiet. She slept on her back, her hands clasped like a saint over her gently moving chest. Her face was relaxed, peaceful. He thought a slight smile played across her lips and her eyelids twitched as she chased a pleasant dream.

He rose from his seat to push back the heavy curtains. The bent wand of the crescent moon cast its icy beams across her bed, turning pale green sheets there into a snowy landscape. Watery green tiles of the wainscoting shone dully and even the pock-marked ceiling seemed to drift like shimmering clouds.

He leaned forward to pull a faded green blanket from the foot of her bed. Wrapping it over his knees might help ward off the chill that seeped in through the cracked mullions at the window panes.

Letting her calm invade his mind, he closed his eyes, centering himself for a moment.

xxxxxxxxx

Shimmying air currents roused the curtain at his shoulder and Elias woke with a start.

A long shadow crouched over Joss.

Elias tightened the grip on a switchblade in his pants pocket, feeling for the button release as he freed the weapon from the folds of cloth.

The shade moved forward and a thin white hand emerged from the dark form.

Elias watched as a trembling palm passed over her cheek. A finely carved finger traced the outline of her lips, ivory against the warm red. When the intruder pressed two light kisses on her forehead, Elias dropped the knife back into his pocket and shifted in his seat.

"John."

He kept his voice low so as not to startle the other man or awaken Joss.

"What a funny old world this is. I thought I might meet you here one day."

The visitor sprang away from the bed, his sharp intake of breath rattling to an abrupt halt as he turned to face the window.

"What are you doing here, Elias!" The voice was raspy, dry and brittle as if it hadn't been used in a long time.

"The same as you, I imagine. Looking out for Jocelyn. Making sure she is safe."

Elias tipped his chin in the direction of the bed and John swiveled his head as well.

He thought the younger man swayed slightly with the shifting of his shoulders, his balance overthrown by the sudden movement.

He saw John jam his fist into the mattress near her knee to steady himself.

"I suppose you're planning to stay a while. So you might as well take a seat here beside me." Elias patted the metal arm of the empty chair as if he were speaking to a small child.

Silence and a stony glance at the offered seat.

"Well, it's far better to sit down than to fall down, John. And you are in danger of collapsing at any minute, I can see."

Still no response.

"Suit yourself. I'm comfortable, Jocelyn is resting soundly."

Elias shrugged in exaggerated fashion and pulled the blanket higher around his waist.

"You might as well take care of yourself after making such a long trek out into this arctic night. I know such exposure to the harsh elements can't possibly be good for your convalescence, can it?"

Elias offered a mild smile which wasn't returned, although he saw John blink three times in rapid succession.

"You know too much about too many things, Elias." The sigh that followed this complaint was soft, almost accepting.

"I know Simmons' bullet went through and through. Took a nick out of your liver, didn't it? Otherwise all the major organs escaped damage, for which I'm sincerely grateful, although you may not believe it."

John grunted to acknowledge the accuracy of Elias' intel.

"And the stitches? How many did I have?"

Elias took this as a grudging overture toward a real conversation and answered with a cheerful inventory.

"Well, let me see now. Dr. Mahdani originally put in twelve. But your premature rampage in search of that vermin Simmons ripped those out."

He paused to check that he was on track, plunging ahead when John nodded in agreement.

"So the good Dr. Patel, Mrs. Soni's talented cousin, repaired the damage with another fifteen. And those stitches, I'm happy to learn, have held firm. You lost a considerable quantity of blood. But are well on the road to full recovery. At least you were until tonight's little excursion to St. Saraphia Martyr."

Elias removed his glasses and polished them with a corner of the blanket.

"I wonder, does my chess partner Mr. Crane know you have escaped again?"

"Like I said, Elias. You know too much."

John moved toward the window, and with a swift jerk pulled the empty chair five feet away from its original position. Elias figured that enough time had elapsed so that John could now take the seat without seeming to admit weakness or accept hospitality.

The younger man sat down heavily, but did not unbutton his long black coat, simply adjusting its hem around his knees.

In the soft light, Elias looked over the planes of this pale, familiar face, starkly framed as always by the upturned black collar.

John seemed thinner than when they had last met, the bones of his skull protruding under the skin to outline a tormented new topography of worry and grief. Maybe it was a trick of the moonlight or maybe it was the emerging truth, but Elias was certain John's black hair carried a new burden of silver at the temples.

Both men stared for a moment at Joss's peaceful form. As if she sensed their regard somehow, she turned onto her right side and placed both hands under her chin. A dimple creased her cheek and she seemed about to speak even as she slept.

Elias thought that she looked like an angel in one of those old paintings he remembered from his mother's parlor, her serene face tinted with a golden glow.

The faint smile that tremored over John's features then – possessive and affectionate - prompted a turn in the conversation.

Elias coughed gently to recapture his companion's attention.

"I want to inform you of a course of action I have put in motion even as we speak. Its outcome directly affects both you and Jocelyn."

On alert, his eyes narrowing, John shifted his keen gaze from the bed.

"What are you planning, Elias?"

"This afternoon, I issued the order to eliminate Simmons. I ordered the hit be done as swiftly as possible and with maximum pain. Since the reward is substantial, I assume a rapid and definitive response will be forthcoming shortly.

"In fact, I don't imagine Simmons will survive the night."

John's dark brow shot up, but he kept the apparent shock from his voice.

"Why are you doing this? What is Simmons to you?"

"A threat to someone I admire. It's as simple as that, really."

"Nothing is ever that simple with you, Elias."

"Cynicism is so unbecoming, John. Even in a man of the world like yourself!"

An icy stare accompanied by a tightening of the fingers around the cold arms of the chair encouraged Elias to detour from the quip. He searched for the most sincere tones in his repertoire to expand on his idea.

"You may not believe this, but I like Jocelyn. I know she doesn't like me; I wouldn't expect her to given who I am and what I do for a living."

He leaned forward to try to catch the other man's eye.

"But I do admire her. Just as much as you do, John."

"Because she saved your life. Your admiration is pretty self-centered, I'd say."

"You wound me, John!" He lowered his head to study the folds in the shabby blanket and smoothed it around his thighs before continuing.

"Of course I won't ever forget what she did to rescue me. She risked everything – her career, her life, her honor – to save me. So naturally, I appreciate her for that."

"Naturally." The sneer was almost light-hearted.

Elias straightened his back and jutted his chin forward to squeeze the pleading tone out of his next words. He wanted this worn and troubled man to understand so much.

"But there's more to it than that. Joss is good, truly good. Even when she doesn't have to be. That matters in my world, John. As I'm sure it does in yours."

He knew he had caught something with those words when John twisted his torso to peer directly into his face at last.

"You and I are alike, John. We are something old, primitive, prowling the edges of civilized society like wolves skulking in the shadows around a camp fire.

"But she." He nodded toward Joss.

"She is that light, that bright flame of civilization that we can only glimpse from a distance."

"I am _not_ like you, Elias."

The assertion was stout, snapped with defiance. But Elias didn't back down from the implied threat.

"You may comfort yourself with that thought. You may even believe it for a while, when her warm embrace lulls you into forgetting your true nature."

Elias paused to let that hit home.

"But you can never change who you are, John. And neither can I."

The younger man raised his left hand and scrubbed along his jawline, the scrape of bristles there making a faint restless sound like leaves on a sidewalk.

Though John kept his eyes averted, Elias knew he was listening closely, so he made his final pitch.

"What I can do is put my energies, primitive as they are, in Jocelyn's service when she needs it."

Elias stretched out both hands in front of him, contemplating the inelegant but practical fingers as he continued.

"With your injuries you are not in a position to take out Simmons. I can do it and I will. I'm not consulting you, John. Or asking your permission. I just wanted you to know my plans. Even to take a meager comfort from my actions, if you can."

"I don't know what to say, Elias."

Another sigh and then John lowered his head and hunched his shoulders forward. He wrapped his arms tightly around his torso and rocked forward.

Elias didn't know if the other man was weeping. But it was possible.

In a low voice, one he kept in reserve for the confessional, Elias added a grace note.

"No need to say anything at all."

The voice grew softer, a whisper hinting at ancient origins.

"You know, John, despite all our similarities in upbringing, in beliefs, in practices, even in our fates. There _is_ one difference between you and me. A simple one at that."

Elias rotated his hands in his lap. The palms, with the garrote's ghastly scars staggering parallel to the life lines, gleamed in the moonlight.

"The difference is, Joss loves you."

John raised his head and turned his face toward the frosted window.

With a shrug to cast off any sorrow, Elias concluded:

"Me, well, I know she despises me. I just hope that one day maybe she won't hate me. But until that day comes, I'll be content to just sit by and watch."

John stirred then, his voice quavering, the breath condensing in a sparkling fog over the window's lower corner.

"I'm glad you're with us, Elias. I couldn't ask for a better man at my side."

So they sat for a long time like that, watching the moon dip and the shadows curve over her narrow bed.

A terse text message at dawn interrupted their vigil. Attached were three grotesque photos documenting the end of Simmons. The pictures were of a placid forest, the corpse posed with meticulous care at the base of a snowy hillock.

"Marconi's weapon of choice is the garrote," Elias explained. "But I am not sure if the fingernails are the work of Diaz or the new man Tommasi."

John studied the images for many minutes, cradling the phone in both hands, his face a waxen mask.

"We're not needed any more then, are we, Elias."

This was a statement, a confession even, rather than a question. So Elias nodded once in silent assent.

He folded the worn blanket, placed it with precision across the foot of her bed, and followed the other man from the hospital out into the gray morning.


End file.
